


Finite

by Fangirl_Shrieks



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, a short stay in hell
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirl_Shrieks/pseuds/Fangirl_Shrieks
Summary: "I didn't know idiocy caused people to spontaneously bleed." OR Annabeth has never given much thought to 'after' until she dies. Annabeth wakes to find herself cast by a god she has never heard of into a Hell whose dimensions she can barely grasp: a vast library she can only escape by finding the book containing the story of her life. With the help of ally Percy, she can only hope.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Finite

**Author's Note:**

> TW for suicidal thoughts and existentialism/depression. Once again, originally posted on fanfiction. Inpired by Steven L. Peck's 'A Short Stay In Hell.'

" _Just as despair can come to one only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings."_

_-Elie Wiesel_

…

**Prologue**

Although she had loved few, Annabeth had loved fiercely, even if it had only been one genuine love in her near-eternally stretched life—Percy Jackson who pushed her to fall to the bottom of the library without him. Had she known him only for so short a time? Strange, how a moment of existence can cut so deeply into her being that while ages passed unnoticed, a brief love could structure and define the very topology of her consciousness ever after.

Annabeth's beginning began so long ago that its horizon is a vanishing point at the convergence of two Euclidean lines that would be parallel by any human nature.

The first years are the easiest to describe. And not for fault of memory. They were years of adventure, companionship, and love. She has not seen anyone for uncountable years now, though. Yet, even after so long, she still listens for the sound of another's voice, the ring of footsteps on the stairs, or a figure moving silhouetted in the distance. Once she spent a year just listening. Another, trying to build a telescope made from sheep intestines from the kiosk, so that she might've looked deep into the library.

Despite her efforts, she had failed to find another soul. They have all scattered far and wide into the vastness of this space and cannot find one other. Annabeth suspects by now they were all alone.

Yet she labors on. By her count (which she knows is accurate, for her memory in this place, it seems, is incapable of forgetting even the smallest detail—a curse and a gift) she has climbed innumerable light-years, from the lowest level to this one where she sits with this book in her hands reading of her stay here. It's not the story of her life, so it serves little purpose, but as she reads marvels that she's found such a book. It's close to the one she seeks.

Sometimes Annabeth fantasizes she will discover the book she has been searching for. But alas, how would she know it was the right one? There are countless books in the library that claim a particular floor contains the one she needs. And then, of course, no single book could contain a number so large that the height and depth of this library could be expressed as a numerical digit. Silly thoughts in this monotonous place are inevitable she supposes.

Annabeth has found many treasures. A couple of eons ago she found a book that looked like it described her earthly digestive history—from beginning to end, every meal, how the food was broken into its chemical composition and then sent on to the intestine. She's also grown fond of what she's sure are very close to Emily Dickinson collections. So, too, she remembers that for about seven hundred billion years she carried a book of hers. It was a marvelous book.

Another book she found not long ago was full of random characters except for pages 111 to 222, wherein she found an exposition that speculated that a god had created the universe as a way of sorting through the great library, finding those books that were most beautiful and meaningful. It argued that in the mere sixteen billion years of her old universe's existence, a vast store of great thought and literature had been produced during the short creative life of human existence on the planet. The book had not been special because of what it said but rather because it had been almost 160 billion years since she had found such a long string of coherent text.

Annabeth has found other books also, some of which resemble the book she's searching for a lot more clearly. If you have any hope at all of understanding, at least somewhat, what it means to survive this Hell, she must begin at the beginning, as everyone does:

~-.-~

_The demon leaned back comfortably in his tall, leather, spinning seat, and he gazed out the window thoughtfully. The room was well lit, the natural light streaming through the glass and casting slices of a rainbow in various parts of the rectangle. There were potted plants tastefully placed around the room, lending the room a sense of proportion, order, and something vaguely businesslike._

_The natural light, however, was very much red. And hot. And fiery. It was Hell, after all, or at least the type of quintessential, eternal punishment Annabeth would've thought true to the Bible._

_Except she didn't remember the part where monsters wore wrinkled suits and dirty, blood-stained ties._

_The monster's yellow pupils were directed curiously out of the large framed window that dominated the wall behind his tall, wooden desk. He made a noise of exasperation, almost like a hardworking, honest man or woman would after a long day's work, only to come to enthusiastic, sugar-high children, and he drummed his black-tipped hooves across the wood mindlessly. He watched with mild fascination as the lava spewed red goo from the center, and people screamed, their wails ringing in the tiny room and causing the glass pen-holder to quiver on the desk, making quiet rattling sounds. The next scream, a particularly high-pitched howl, reverberated through the walls, sending the pen-holder over the edge, shattering noisily against the tile floor._

" _Oh, dear." The monster's face crinkled with genuine concern. "I do wish they wouldn't scream so much. That's my fourth holder, can you believe it?" he asked no one in particular._

_Five frightened, pale faces watched from short, grey chairs on the wall opposite to him._

" _I suppose I should probably start with the spiel."_

_Only the screams provided sound._

_He smiled—not a fierce, diabolical smile, but a genuinely pleased and content grin. His teeth were, however, pointed, and two were oversized, vicious canines that added to the overall ghastliness of his appearance. It certainly made him less welcoming._

" _Well, well, well, what can I say but… welcome," he began, his voice rumbling low in his chest. He spread his beastly, hairy, pointed arms out graciously. "Welcome to Hell."_

_Annabeth blinked, simply at a loss for words. College had not prepared her for this. Come to think of it, it had hardly prepared for anything, hadn't it? Joining an architecture firm had proved to be difficult, even after graduating top of her class, and taxes had been a real pain in the ass, and she certainly hadn't received a crash course on how to converse with overly enthusiastic Hell demons. Perhaps that was part of the Theology track. She frowned in thought; she knew she should've been afraid. The middle-aged man next to her was trembling so fiercely she feared he would faint sooner or later, but she did not feel fear as she should've. Perhaps, she speculated humorlessly, it was part of her nihilistic, millennial generation streak. She was beginning to think she had gone into shock, and that was the only reason she still had her wits about her._

" _Satan?" one of the women whispered hoarsely._

" _Ahriman? Oh, no, honey, nothing like that," the demon assured her. "I'm a very, very small demon of Zoroastrianism. I hope you are not too disappointed?" He seemed genuinely concerned._

_Another woman turned her head away, sobbing profusely._

_Zoroastrianism? Annabeth opened and closed her mouth like a stupid fish. Hardly anyone but Persia practiced that anymore._

" _Well, let's see. What have we here today?" The demon picked up a small rectangle, something that almost resembled a thicker tablet. The screen lit up blue. Even Hell, Annabeth watched with fascination, was technologically advanced. The monster began tapping on the screen with his long, clawed fingers. Annabeth cringed at the scraping sound; it was like nails on a chalkboard as he scratched up the screen incessantly._

" _Bryce Lawrence?" he said, suddenly looking up at one of the men sitting in the uncomfortable metal chairs._

_Rather than fear, this man seemed to radiate a quiet, bold confidence—like someone used to sending back food at a restaurant or someone accustomed to having a chat with the manager after picking apart some obscure flaw with the young, overworked, underpaid staff._

" _There's been a mistake," the man said softly, but with firm resolve. "I'm not supposed to be here."_

" _A mistake?" the demon inquired with a baffled look on his face. "Quite possible, quite possibly. Things in Hell don't always run as smoothly as one would like, do they?"_

_The same woman who had asked him if he was Satan began to laugh now before the tears turned into something resembling heart-wrenching weeping. Annabeth was sure she was hysterical, not that she could exactly blame her._

_The demon picked up the rectangle and after a few taps read aloud, "Let's see. Bryce Lawrence. 1294 Battle Lane. Forrest City, Arkansas. Wife: Sarah Lawrence. Four children: James, Jack, Jessie, and Junior." He paused, studying Bryce with a judgemental expression on his face. Annabeth never thought she would live to see the day a demon judged a mortal man in Hell—or died, rather. "All J names?" The monster clicked his tongue. "Tacky," he said before continuing. "Died from drowning in a bathtub? Well, that's an awfully stupid way to go, isn't it? A bit of a slow bastard, aren't you—oh! Oh it says you bled to death. My mistake. I didn't know idiocy caused people to spontaneously bleed. I do hope your four children don't go the same way. You know what they say—foolish men make fools for sons."_

_Annabeth had never heard of that saying in her entire life. They blankly watched him as he chuckled at his own odd joke, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye. It was dark like blood, and she swallowed hard, everything suddenly starting to become real to her._

" _Is this silk?" the demon asked, petting the coat the man was wearing as if it was a lovely, little cat. "Divine." He laughed at his own cruel joke. There was no divination in order here, not if they had reached Hell for a final sentence._

" _Anyway, everything looks in order," the great demon said with a little impatience in his voice._

" _No, you see, I was saved. Forever and for all time. I came forth at the preacher's call and was washed in the blood of the lamb. I'm saved by Christ. Who can snatch me from God's hand?"_

_As the man spoke, he rose to his feet, drew his face upward, and threw his hands into the air crying, "Help me, Jesus!"_

_It sent shivers down Annabeth's spine._

_The demon looked on quizzically. "You were a Christian then?"_

" _Yes. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I shouldn't be here. I've been saved," the man shouted, though with waning bravado._

" _Well, there's your problem. You didn't join the one true religion."_

" _What? I'm telling you, I was a Christian. I read the Bible every day. I donated money to the TV evangelists every Sunday. And I was saved."_

" _No. Sorry. The true religion is not that."_

Then what is? " _Excuse me," Annabeth said, and her knees felt like jelly in her seat. "Is Zoroastrianism the true religion?"_

_The demon's eyes lit up excitedly, and she wasn't sure if she should've been afraid. She backed away hastily._

" _You know of it?" He clapped his monstrous hands together like an infant._

" _Well, yes. If I'm not mistaken, you're Xandern, one of the Yazatas." Annabeth chewed her bottom lip nervously._

" _Oh, yes! Finally!" He cheered, grinning from ear to ear, and Annabeth paled. "I have waited almost eternity for someone to finally come through who's studied a bit of Zoroastrianism! Tell me, dear, where did you study?"_

" _Cornell, sir."_

" _Wonderful! I've missed Ithaca. Oh, please, call me Xandern," he insisted._

_Annabeth felt her face heat up, but she couldn't tell if it was from fear, delusion, embarrassment, the sheer heat of Hell, or a mixture of all of the above. "Er… yes, Xandern," she conceded._

" _What a shame you're in Hell, dear. I would've liked to speak to you more about it, but you know… punishment and all that."_

_She nodded like she understood._

" _Anyways, no. However much I'd love for it to be, Zoroastrianism isn't the one true language of life."_

" _What is?" the man asked, cutting in impatiently._

_The demon scowled at him, obviously pissed off to be interrupted from bonding with Annabeth. The blonde only felt relief, however. She was afraid she'd say something wrong, and he'd smite her or something._

" _Not Christianity," he snapped evasively. "Bit of bad luck there."_

" _Zoor-what-ism? Never heard of it. How can that be the true religion?" The man looked confused._

" _Are you deaf too, Mr. Lawrence?" the demon spat acidly. Literally. Acid pooled at the ground, turning the tile into ash and smithereens._

_Bryce Lawrence was a fool as far as Annabeth was concerned. She sat quietly with the rest of the people in chairs, watching the madness unfold before her._

" _Besides, there's never been but a few hundred thousand of them at any one time, mostly located in Iran and India, but that's it. Either way, though, you, my good man, are bound for Hell."_

_The man looked stunned and shocked. "It's not fair."_

_The demon gave a mirthful laugh. "Well, it was fair when you were sending all the Chinese to Hell who had never heard of Jesus, wasn't it? And what a cruel and vicious Hell it was. And your Hell was not our short little correct-you-a-little Hell. This was eternal damnation. At least in Zoroastrianism, you eventually get out of Hell," the monster began defending his religion again, winking at Annabeth. She offered a wan, weakened smile. "Do you have any long eternity is?" He glared at the bold man. "My heavens, what an imagination you humans have. What kind of God would leave you burning forever? Most of you wouldn't do that to a neighbor's dog, even if it barked relentlessly at two a.m. every morning. After about ten minutes watching a dog suffer in the kind of Hell you imagined God was going to send his wicked children to, you would be pleading for the damned beast's mercy. It's crazy. Create a few beings; those that don't obey you roast forever? Give me a break." The demon shook his great head in wonder._

_One of the women, a pretty girl with short blonde hair, raised her hand._

" _You mean we won't be in Hell forever?"_

_Annabeth found herself leaning forward to hear the reply, even if the monster's voice projected quite fantastically._

_The demon laughed. "Of course not. Hell is for your edification and wisdom. Punishment? Yes. But not forever."_

" _So those people will get out?" the woman continued, pointing shakily to those in agony outside the window._

_The demon considered for a moment. "I probably shouldn't tell you this… well, no harm's done, I've never really agreed with the policy anyway… but that's all just make-believe. We keep the office windows showing that scene just to get the new arrivals to take things seriously. Those are all actors. They get off in about half an hour. So… anyway, we'd better push on."_

_Annabeth blinked, one of the many confused humans._

_The demon rose to his feet. "Well, Bryce the Christian, where shall we send you?"_

" _This isn't right," he screamed._

_The demon was ignoring his tantrum. He began tapping his handheld device. "No… no, that's not it, no, no… maybe, no, ah! No, I shouldn't, but… no, that's too cruel… I really shouldn't." He chuckled and sighed. "Oh, why not? The great God created irony too."_

_Bryce by this time was screaming at the top of his lungs about the injustice of it all._

" _Injustice?" queried the demon sarcastically. "You were never concerned with justice a day in your life except when it was in your favor. Bye." With a tap of his claw to the screen the man disappeared briskly in mid-outrage, leaving the room in cold silence._

 _The demon was back on his device, humming a bit to himself. Annabeth thought it was Staying Alive. He really_ did _enjoy his irony, then._

" _That felt good. I hate those unthinking, unreflexive types. That Hell ought to humble him a bit… eternal Hell! What an imagination."_

_Everyone continued to stare at him as he busily tapped away._

" _Julia Hanson?" he said, looking at the same woman who had asked about the lake of fire outside the window. "Single. Professor of biology at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Confirmed atheist. Wrote a number of papers on the evolution of bumblebee society. Very interesting ones, too, I must say. Well, well, well, you must really be surprised to be here, huh? Now do you believe?"_

_The frightened woman could only shake her head and mutter, "I'm sure I've gone mad," but she did not seem convinced by her own words. After a moment she asked, "so there is a God?"_

" _I suppose so. Or I suppose not." The demon frowned like he wasn't quite sure which was which._

" _I thought demons were under the control of Satan? Sort of the dark side of the Force."_

" _Oh, I love Star Wars! But no, Satan gets too much credit," he grumbled. "He just lazes around all day, eating too many pirouette cookies, a real pain, honestly."_

_Annabeth had a very hard time imagination Xandern watching the original trilogy, playing with lightsabers. Or Satan eating pirouette cookies for goodness sake. "Besides, demons aren't in charge of Hell. Heavens, no. How can you think a god would let something like Hell exist if they were really in charge of the universe? Sheesh. Running a Hell is an art of such imagination and brilliance; how could anyone but the master of judgement be in charge?"_

_The woman looked down at her smock and mumbled, "I know more about bumblebees."_

" _Yes, you do," the demon said excitedly, tapping frantically as if he had just had a stroke of brilliance, his very own Eureka moment._

" _There," he said smiling. "Bye."_

_She was gone._

_A few more questions, a few more taps, some of the other begging, some silent, but one by one the people disappeared until one woman remained sitting on her chair._

" _Well, well, best of all the game, hey? A Cornell woman," Xandern appreciated._

_Annabeth felt so small and numb. Her lips were chapped, and she felt parched. The heat and smog was beginning to affect her._

" _Annabeth Chase, died in a car crash at twenty-five. Oh, you were young. A shame."_

_She barely managed a nod._

" _And so bright too. No children. Looks like you were a good daughter, good aunt, ethical businesswoman. Two nieces. Well, I'm sure they'll miss you… no affiliated religion or non-religion. Didn't do a lot of praying or thinking?"_

_Annabeth shrugged one shoulder. "I was busy with my buildings to even consider if there even was a higher power or not," she lamely said._

" _I've seen your work. Lovely."_

" _Thank you," she managed._

_Xandern smiled. "You would have made a good Zoroastrian. Now, what Hell for you? Let's see, you liked to read… in fact it seems you loved books. Interesting."_

_Suddenly the demon looked up._

" _Bye."_

_And so it began._

~-.-~

Annabeth found this book around the 23439th day of her stay in Hell. How odd to find a book that looks as if she wrote it when it's really just one of the random possibilities that exist here. It was close enough to the actual events that she will place it in the slot to see if it changes her fate.

How does one begin to describe infinities of eons? How can such a small word as 'eon' describe a length of time that is more akin to eternity than any measurable time span? There is no metaphor she can use to give anyone, including you the readers, a sense of the time that's passed here.

After this long she is not bitter—she barely feels at all. Now she only searches.

…

**(In)Finite**

Upon leaving the demon, Annabeth was disoriented and frustrated. She could only tell she was in an immense, spacious building.

Feeling lost and confused, Annabeth began to cry. She bawled like an infant, tears falling onto her white smock. She wondered mildly if she should've prayed then, but to what was she supposed to pray? Was there one God or many? Were there none at all, and this was all some big hoax, a coma she had entered after her car crash? She only remembered her neck going through the windshield glass, and then she was sitting in a demon's office. Was the divine intervention male or female or none of the above? How does one pray if they didn't know what a god was in this place? Maybe the god was a demon—that would explain a great deal, actually; it would explain all the misery on Earth.

The lights around her went dark as she wept some more until she fell into a deep and troubled slumber right then and there.

…

Annabeth woke at six in the morning. She knew it was six, of course, because there was a large clock at least two meters wide in the very center of the humongous, otherworldly library. There was a sign with a set rules and advice. There was also an opening to a small chamber furnished with neatly made beds, racks of smocks identical to the one she was wearing, and several lines of showers, sinks, and toilet stalls.

Somehow she had always assumed going to the bathroom was something of such an earthly nature that it would be necessary in the afterlife. Yet another surprise of many.

Annabeth looked in the mirror and discovered she was no longer bloody at her hairline, and there was not a scrape on her body. Instead, her hair was neatly curled and parted to one side. Her teeth were white and straight. She wondered if this meant… curiously, Annabeth scratched herself. She was disappointed when she drew blood. And it hurt.

She went back to the corridor to peer at the sign placed next to the clock. This is what it said:

_Welcome to Hell. This Hell is based upon a short story by Jorge Luis Borges from your world called "The Library of Babel." Here you will find all the books that can possibly be written. When you are ready to leave, find the book describing your earthly life story (without errors, e.g., in spelling, grammar, etc.) and submit the story through the slot below this sign. If the story is accepted, you will be admitted into a glorious other world of the one true religion. During your stay you may be interested in reading a book or two on religion. By special arrangement, there is a shelf on every floor. The other books are randomized. The food kiosk will provide whatever you would like to eat. Just ask for it. We would ask that you please follow a simple rules during your stay in Hell:_

_One: Please be kind. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Failure to do this will bring unhappiness and misery to you and your fellow citizens._

_Two: Do not get discouraged. Remember nothing lasts forever. Someday this will be a distant memory._

_Three: Please leave towels on the floor if you wish them to be cleaned. Hang up those you wish to use again._

_Four: Books not in your possession will be returned to their original place on the stacks every night. A book will be considered in your possession if you are touching it._

_Five: If you are killed you will be restored to life the following day. Please try to avoid death as much as possible._

_Six: All contracts, bonds, commitments, covenants, pledges, and promises entered into prior to your entering Hell are null and void. This includes, but is not limited to: debt, marriage, natural births and adoptions, requirements of citizenship, military obligations, student loans, etc._

_Seven: Remember you are never really alone, although it may feel like it for very long stretches of time._

_Eight: Please don't write on, mark, or mar library materials. Although repairs are made nightly, we would like to keep repairs to a minimum._

_Nine: Lastly, you are here to learn something. Don't try to figure out what it is. This can be frustrating and unproductive._

_We hope you enjoy your stay here. We have done all we can to make your stay a pleasant and instructive one._

Annabeth stared at the rules a long time. Especially number six. The student loan thing was probably the _only_ good thing about this entire situation. Her mind began to wander, however, to her loved ones. And other questions also. Was everyone here who had ever lived? No. She remembered the demon tapping away on his device, seemingly sending people to a variety of Hells.

Still, all she had believed in during her life appeared to be mistaken. Gone just like that. All her hopes. All her dreams. It was all wrong. She tried to remember her parents; she found she could recall every detail of her life, every event ever experienced with perfect clarity. She could remember every word on every page she'd ever read. Every conversation. Every tax form she'd ever filled out. She could reconstruct every second of every day she'd been alive from the moment of birth to the day she finally shut her eyes at the end.

The clarity of memory surprised Annabeth the first time she tried reviewing the past, but it was all there. (This was to be the greatest curse of Hell. Sometimes she would replay her entire life again and gain for thousands of years. Remembering all the things she could have done differently, all the things…)

Annabeth walked up to the food kiosk on the second day at two in the afternoon, the first time she had felt hungry; she had seen people use it earlier.

"Can I get fries and a vanilla milkshake like the ones at In-N-Out?" She had only seen more vague orders like 'Caesar salad' or 'medium-rare steak,' but she was homesick for a life she used to know. To her surprise and delight, the Californian staple appeared before in the traditional wrapping and all. "And a brownie like Frederick Chase used to make?" It was a gamble, but sure enough a small, somewhat charred brownie appeared out of thin air. Burned, just like how he used to mess up. A rueful smile tugged at her lips.

There were no tables, so she sat on the floor under the railing, dangling her feet over the edge and staring at the rows and rows of floors on the other side of the abyss. Across the chasm, people were also reading the rules, wandering around, and, just as she was, starting small conversations. Some were using the kiosk and eating.

Annabeth leaned over the railing and drank her juice, looking deep into the crevasse between the floors bracketing her side and the other opposite. She didn't think she'd ever seen anything so deep. Not even the Grand Canyon had seemed so vast.

"I used to be afraid of heights. But this looks even beyond my fear. It looks like it goes on forever."

Annabeth's head snapped up to look at a young man. He couldn't have been much older than she was. He had unruly dark hair, a lean figure and tall, and most notably of all he had stunning sea-green eyes. Annabeth had not seen such beautiful, rich, vivid color since she had been alive, standing on the shores of California, admiring a life she had definitely taken for granted and was only now realizing.

"Maybe it does," she said hastily, her gaze glued to him. (She was wrong of course. It does end. There is a bottom. But 'forever' would have been a better word. 'Forever and ever' would hardly have described it. 'Infinity' is even too small a word to describe the vastness of the distance to the bottom. But she's stood upon the bottom floor. The human mind cannot comprehend what it took to reach, but she's been there).

"May I?" He was holding a blue cookie in his hand, and being in Hell and all, Annabeth decided not to ask. After a demon called people 'honey' and 'dear,' the cookie was not even close to the weirdest thing she'd seen. She silently gestured for him to join her.

"Percy Jackson," he introduced himself, peering into the dark next to her.

She smiled thinly, tiredly. "Annabeth Chase."

Unlike the other strangers, he did not ask her how she died, and she didn't tell. They were content to just sit there and peek at the gaping hole of darkness below them, content to reflect internally on the human life they'd left behind.

…

For the first since their arrival, Percy and Annabeth walked over to the shelves of books and pulled one down. Each volume appeared to be identical on the outside. They were bound in light brown high-quality calfskin, and the edges were gilded in bright gold. An ordinary book by all appearances—except the text was complete gibberish. A random splash of capital and lowercase characters, punctuation marks, and other characters. Here is a line from the first page of the first book she picked up:

_Aj;kLJjppOjnfe7 ImNB2uyS ;jHnMBVF '2jh,bYblZl )m $'n gD E#zB /,,]hqH_

Every page had a similar look.

"These books are nothing but garbage," a middle-aged woman nearby said in a disgusted voice. "When I was looking at these, I was thinking about a lifetime spent reading great works of literature. Now I get it—this is Hell; an eternity surrounded by books, but they're all nonsense." She sardonically laughed and heaved the book over the railing.

Another young man wandered over to her and Percy. "I see you've discovered the quality of our library."

"I can't believe it," said Annabeth, picking up another volume and staring at the symbols.

"I'm Jason," he said finally.

"How do you do?" Annabeth asked, offering him a tiny smile.

"How do any of us do here?" Percy muttered, and Annabeth hid another smile. He wasn't wrong. A muscle in Jason's cheek twitched.

Annabeth continued to pull books off the shelf and flip through them. She was having a hard time believing all of the books were just collections of random characters.

Jason seemed mildly amused. She was pulling them off the shelf, paging rapidly through them and then, like the lady, tossing them over the side. More people joined them, and soon a fair number of them were looking through books and tossing them over the side, most of them making the same sorts of comments:

"I can't believe it. Such nice books, and every one of them is filled with nonsense."

"This isn't right! Is it?"

"This is Hell. This really is Hell."

One woman was laughing hysterically and just tossing books over the side. She wasn't even looking at them.

Annabeth had to admit she found a certain strange pleasure in heaving books over the side. It was a feeling akin to popping bubble-wrap. Watching the nonsensical books disappearing, flapping wildly into the oblivion below gave her a strange, small sense of purpose.

Jason just shook his head. "I see," he said to no one in particular. "We really are in the Library of Babel."

A woman standing next to Annabeth, watching the books fair inquired politely, "The Library of Babel?" She had choppy brunette hair, caramel skin, and she was quite frankly one of the most beautiful women Annabeth had ever seen in her entire life. Or death. Or whatever this was.

"This is the Library of Babel," he said, and several people turned their attention to Jason, including Annabeth. She had a mild idea of the story, but she had never really read it herself, only skimming it, and she was curious.

"What's the library of Babel?" Percy asked, repeating the woman's question.

"The rules say this Hell is based on a story by Borges, and I remember the story. Look, the books all end on page four hundred ten, just like the books in his story. And look at this. They're all in blocks of—" here he began counting "—yes. Eighty characters per line, just as Borges described. Incredible." He paused, looking at the crowd that had formed. "Imagine a library that contains not just every book that has been written, but every book that could be written. I remember the story exactly. How strange. But the basic idea from Borges' story is that the library contains every possible book. So somewhere in here is a book of all 'A's, a book of all periods, or a book of semicolons, or any letter. There's a book that alternates A and B for its entire length, but most books are just random collections of symbols."

"So there's a book that's half A and half B," proposed the brunette from earlier.

"Yes," Jason affirmed. "But more than that, every book ever written is here. And every book ever written is here backwards."

One petite girl with long, large curly hair and cocoa skin raised her hand like a student in a classroom, and Jason acknowledged her.

"It can't have every book," she said, tilting her head curiously. "Some books are longer than four hundred ten pages. War and Peace, for example."

"War and Peace would be in multiple volumes," Jason explained, "with blank pages after it ended, completing the last volume."

"Or with the life of Leo Tolstoy at the end," Annabeth added, beginning to understand.

"Both," said Jason. "There's even one with the history of Leo Tolstoy's nose hair completing the volume. But most are going to be pure and utter nonsense—random characters with no order."

"So there's a version of War and Peace with the main character named George instead of Pierre," the short, curly-haired girl realized.

"That's what the sign out front means." Percy, her new friend, began to speak. "We have to find out own life story to get out of here."

"In one or two volumes," asked a tall, Chinese man in despair, "or ten or twelve?"

Jason continued almost to himself, "there's a second-by-second account of our lives, probably in multiple volumes, a minute-by-minute account, an hour-by-hour, a day-by-day. There's one that covers the events of our lives as viewed by our mothers, one by our fathers, one by our neighbors, one by our dogs. There must be thousands of our biographies here. Which one do they want, I wonder?"

Everyone seemed stunned, thinking about the different volumes in the library.

"You mean there's a biography of everything and everyone in this library. There's even a biography of the goldfish in my fish tank?" The curly-haired girl worried her bottom lip, chewing so hard she bled.

"Yes. Anything that can be written is here. The history of your big toe as viewed from the perspective of your shoe is there. Anything you can imagine, anything you can picture being written is here in this library." Jason seemed to be astonished as well by his own words.

"It must have billions and billions of books," the brunette said. "If there's a biography for anyone who's ever lived, and every goldfish, and every worm, there must be billions and billions of books."

"Wouldn't it be infinite?' Percy asked, and everyone stared at him, trembling, frightened, angry he dared ask a question they were all wondering.

"I'm not sure. I don't think so," Annabeth said, coming to his rescue. "If we have four hundred and ten pages, forty lines of eighty characters, and a finite number of characters, there's a finite number of books I would think. But it's large. Very large."

They were all silent at the thought of the task before them. In this library of mostly meaningless books there was a book that described their life stories. They had to find that one book. _It could take millions of years,_ Annabeth thought. (Millions of years. Ha!)

Most of the people had lost interest in opening the books and had begun conversations in small groups. Annabeth fell in with Jason, the brunette named Piper, the curly-haired girl by the name of Hazel, the Chinese man named Frank, a elvish-looking Hispanic boy named Leo, and finally Percy.

They spoke of where they had come from, one by one. Frank was hailed from Canada, and he had died at the age of twelve in a fire. Everyone reverted to the age of twenty-five in Hell, Annabeth realized. A seemingly arbitrary number, but it was just the way it was. Leo was a mechanic and came from Mexico, and he died at fifty from gang activity near his home. Piper had died at twenty-one from an alcohol overdose—she had been a model, and the industry was very demanding, the cause of her drug abuse. Jason died when he was eighty-nine from old age. He had been a pilot and had served in the US Army, and he left behind a lovely wife, three beautiful children, and five grand-children at the time of his death. It was odd learning to hear people speak like old, wise sages when they all were young adults on the surface. Hazel grew up in New Orleans and died at the age of fifteen from murder. The very idea made Annabeth shudder. Percy died in a plane crash when he was twenty-nine, and Annabeth's heart went out to him as she explained her death in a car accident. They were very similar, in some ways, and then not similar at all in others.

"I guess we've got our work cut out for us," Piper observed positively.

"It's too bad we're starting the search in the middle. Maybe we should find where the library ends. You know, start at the beginning," Annabeth suggested.

"It's not a bad idea," said Jason. "At least we wouldn't accidentally redo a floor or something.

Hazel smiled. "I'm still not convinced there's not an infinity of books. How can there be a limit to the number of books that can be written?" Frank and Leo nodded in agreement. (Annabeth has to admit she was a little skeptical herself, but as you'll see, she eventually meets someone who has calculated the number of books in the library. There _is_ a finite number).

The clock was moving toward ten in the night, and Annabeth thought the lights would probably go out soon. The seven of them chose the nearest chamber to sleep. They chose the same beds they had the night before. What creatures of habit they are. After only a few nights in Hell they had settled into a comfortable routine. As Annabeth peeled back the made bed, the lights went out and that utter stillness returned. Her thoughts were restless now, and she was in no mood for sleep.

How far was it to the end of the hallway in which they lived? Was it further than a mile? What if it were a hundred miles? How many books would that be? What if it were a thousand? It wasn't that far, surely.

…

Annabeth laced up her sneakers the next morning, fully prepared to tackle the monumental library.

"What time is it?" Percy asked next to her, awake with the turning-on of the light the same as her. He glanced to the clock, though, without waiting for her response and saw it was already six-fifteen.

"We have to find an end," Annabeth told him seriously. She pressed her lips together tightly. "It's foolish to search mindlessly. We were sent to a library for a reason, and if it isn't done methodically we'll never find a way out of here." She was very much aware of the desperation infiltrating her once calm demeanor.

Percy half-frowned, but he nodded. "I already had breakfast."

"Me too." She'd had bacon and eggs; it was not anything particularly healthy, but seeing as she woke up every morning the exact same she'd been earlier—neatly curled hair and devoid of any and all injuries—she hardly saw the point of eating anything healthy, except perhaps for the psychological feeling she was eating well, living normally. It was hard, after a lifetime of habit and values, to throw it all away so easily.

She had seen vegetarians cave and eat meat, dieting men and women gorge on sugar, crowds of people wandering about in drunken stupor—it was all appalling. If they did not still have their values, what _did_ they have? She understood feeling lost, not knowing who you were in this Hell, not knowing what to believe, having your entire belief system or lack thereof torn to pieces, shredded to ribbons, but she still ate mostly as she always did, afraid to lose the small piece of her left in this body, this spirit she hardly recognized.

"The others?" Annabeth asked blandly, expecting the other five to come out of the chamber, but it was quite the opposite.

Jason had wept three times already for his wife and children, even if rule 6 stated all worldly connections were severed—a fact Leo had unwittingly pointed out, earning him pillows to the face.

Piper had begun to eat nothing, insisting on quarters of salads, as if she was afraid of gaining weight even if her body did not change at all, like the rest of them.

Hazel had torn herself apart, leaving her ribbons and bands of red blood. But every morning she woke, she was the same as before.

Frank dutifully searched the books, but even he grew tired, slumping against the shelves long after the lights switched off.

Leo joined him at first, enthusiastic and optimistic, but he slowly sank into depression, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes from the kiosk as his hope dwindled until it had faded entirely.

Percy was in the same boat as her. They searched too, though with reckless abandon, and made routines for themselves, trying to keep some semblance of sanity sparkling even through the night, or else they feared what came next, what came when one's mind snapped upon itself, losing it entirely.

Annabeth had seen it happen in so many others. A girl with fair skin and golden locks by the Calypso had pitched herself off into the void only two days prior. She hadn't screamed as she fell, as if she had lost all ability to feel anything but fear to the point where even the fear only numbed. Annabeth had no idea what had happened to her nor Rachel, a gentle painter who began climbing stairs three days before and had not returned since. Annabeth was not sure going or down would change things if you were in the same, middle area, and she sought the end of the library as she had expressed on her second day in Hell, and Percy had grimly decided to accompany her.

They had formed some idea of an alliance, but it was more than that. It morphed into a friendship Annabeth had once known with her coworkers down on Earth, and then it changed again into a friendship of true friends, and then it was them against the world, and now they planned to find the end, however painful and treacherous.

And so they ran… from their fears, future, past, and present, but running harder and longer doesn't mean you will escape your mind.

No… minds, Annabeth has learned since her first week in Hell, tend to stay with you, each and every painful memory as fresh as the day they happened.

…

They ran for what felt like days. Young and fit and twenty-five, they didn't feel tired for a long time, but as they approached the third hour, they stopped at another identical chamber, and they made their requests at another kiosk. It felt like they were racing against the clock on the wall, the ticking sound haunting Annabeth.

Percy slumped against the railing—it seemed to follow them everywhere, heeding the backs of their ankles with loyalty—and chugged from the water bottle. Perspiration soaked the back of Percy's shirt and beaded along his hairline.

Annabeth was sure she didn't look much better. It was already twelve in the afternoon. She wondered absentmindedly what her nieces were doing, her adult brother Malcolm, her father Frederick, her step-mother, her little half-brothers Bobby and Matthew, both her nieces, her real mother Athena. And then she realized she didn't even know if time worked the same there that it did here.

She and Percy had passed people. Some spoke various languages, but many knew at least some English. They hailed from all different religions—Islam, Christianity, Hinduism, Judaism, Buddhism, Shintoism, Confucianism, Jainism, Taoism, Sikhism, and even Zoroastrianism. And all were crying, mourning, lost.

Annabeth even watched with ill-concealed horror as a Jewish girl pitched herself into the void. She could still hear her scream, even now, ringing in her ears, haunting her. (Even now, Annabeth remembers her scream, except it has blended seamlessly with the screams of so many others).

"What was it like being twenty-nine?" Annabeth asked, sipping at the water the lovely kiosks provided.

"Not much difference. What's four years?"

Annabeth swallowed thickly. "A high school graduation."

"Oh, god." Percy cringed immediately at his use of the word before continuing. "I hated that place."

"Really? It was okay," Annabeth decided, frowning. She hadn't _enjoyed_ wasting seven hours in a crummy public school every day, Monday through Friday, but she had thrived.

"Well, you were smart," Percy reminded her, and she hid a smile. "It must be odd for you, though, right? Since you went at twenty-five, and you're the same now."

"To be twenty-five for a long time…" Annabeth trailed off. "I don't even want to begin imagining it."

Percy nodded in agreement. "So who'd you leave behind?"

"No kids," Annabeth told him, nodding slightly. "So I suppose it could've been worse."

He grinned with all teeth, but it was hollow like they had become. "I left behind a dog, but yeah no children."

She winced. "Dogs are adorable. You were a marine biologist though, right? No fish?"

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Fish should be free. They're not food; they're friends."

She laughed wildly, and it was perhaps the only time she had ever laughed in this place. It was somewhat chilling in such a quiet library, and she quickly fell quiet once more.

"I haven't heard someone laugh in so long," Percy mumbled with realization.

Annabeth nodded, the solemn wave overtaking them both. "Kinda creepy."

The corner of his lips curved up humorlessly. "Yeah. You ready to get going again?"

"Born ready, Seaweed Brain," she teased, and it lacked all malice, but it also lacked heart. Hers had grown small in her line of work, and it had grown even smaller here, confined by books of gibberish and quickly slipping hope and sleep that liked to evade her when she most needed it.

"That's horrible," he groaned, but when he smiled, it lit up the artificial lights of the library, drowning them out with the genuine charm behind his eyes, and it gave her the strength to pitch the water down the void, watching it disappear into blackness before tightening her laces and following in suit.

…

They spoke while they ran. It probably made them more winded and forced them to take more breaks, but it was tiresome mentally to run for hours together, knowing they would do the same each day, sleeping in the closest chambers each night before running some more, waking with the lights and turning in right before ten each night.

Percy told her about his mother as they ran then. "She was incredible, Wise Girl," he panted, and she glanced over at him as they ran, smiling involuntarily at the fond expression on his face. "I'm a total momma's boy, so that's probably it." He flashed his neat pearly whites at her, and she laughed.

Something about him gave her strength, not only to keep running, but to keep _believing._

You see, Annabeth was a natural-born cynic, a pessimist through and through. And in Hell, her mind went to very dark places, but Percy was her light then. He told jokes, albeit terrible ones, and she told him he'd be a wonderful father with god-awful puns. He even had to stop once before he made himself laugh so hard he needed a break. He'd hardly been able to get the joke out, but she had laughed anyways, even if she hadn't understood; his joy was infectious and his sadness contagious, and it was strange to know someone like this. She had never once imagined Hell would be like this: tiresome, tedious, hopeless, but not painful. The only pain came from within. (But she knows better now. She knows not all people are Percy, and she knows external pain comes later on when people turn to fear to guide them further into the dark, discarding hope like a useless slip of paper. Forgotten and left behind).

But for all the hope in the world, all the tea in China, there was no end in sight. They ran for five weeks before giving up.

It was a rotten feeling to believe so much, only to be let down, and Annabeth knew with cold certainty that was the very reason she had not been a big believer in anything as a living, breathing human being. Believing meant putting your all into an idea, a person, into _something_ , and fate was a cruel mistress.

"What now?" Percy breathed, his eyes wide with anguish.

Annabeth's gaze dropped to her fingers as they sat knee to knee, guilt and hopelessness sucking away the sparing goodness left in her. "I don't know," she whispered, and she realized it was the first time she hadn't known where to go from there, the first time she had admitted it out loud, anyway.

It was an endless cycle, waking each morning to shower, hoping for a future past this, for an end to this cruel and unusual punishment, only to realize there was no escape.

Percy had grasped tightly to rule number nine next to the large clock in the very center still visibly from wherever they ran: _Lastly, you are here to learn something. Don't try to figure out what it is. This can be frustrating and unproductive._

To him, it was a form of comfort, a therapy of sorts, and to her it was a reminder that she was stupid in comparison to the higher powers that might have been. (She knows better now again. She knows it's easier to find respite in simply believing in words without evidence or any reason for proof. She knows it is entirely and utterly exhausting to chase even the few truths graciously given to them to begin with. It is enough to make grown men and women go mad, and she has seen her fair share of the insane in her struggle to find her book).

Percy found a book yesterday with the first coherent sentence Annabeth had seen in a long, long time. They had been surprised, excited: _In a nutshell._ It meant nothing, really, and it was surrounded by gibberish as much as everything else, but they had clung to it for power in the darkest of times, but even now it was not enough solace to keep the overwhelming urge of pitching herself off into the void from entering Annabeth's dark mind.

"I don't know," she restated, her grey eyes blown wide.

Percy reached out, holding her hands by the wrist, soothing her. "We keep running," he said, his voice hoarse and shaky. "I don't know what else to do. We haven't seen people in… in at least a week."

As if on cue, a scream came from her left. Annabeth's head whipped to her side, and she caught sight of a stumbling young man, clutching his head. He was forcefully ripping his hair out at the roots, tufts of black coming out in his hands. He wouldn't stop screaming, his wailing echoing in the chilly hallway, and Annabeth took a frightened step back, her hand still in Percy's. He squeezed her palm tightly, reassuringly, before letting go and cautiously approaching the traumatized man.

"Sir?" Percy attempted, and the other man only screamed some more. He had bald patches, probably from his own form of self-torture, spotted around his skull.

Annabeth felt her blood roaring in her veins, pounding in her eyes. Her breath came out in short, gasping puffs of sheer terror.

Percy held out his hands like he was taming a startled dolphin. "Sir, will you please tell us what's happened?"

The man grinned wickedly, like a monster, no longer a man, and even Percy briskly stepped back, his chest heaving with cold dread.

"What hastn't happenmed?" the man whispered. It was like a sort of lisp, and when he spoke Annabeth realized why. She nearly threw up right then and there. The man had obviously knocked out of all his teeth, whether by his own fist or someone else's Annabeth didn't know. His mouth was bloody, and drops flew out down onto his smock shirt, staining the ethereal, albeit hospital-esque white a dirty red.

Annabeth backed up into a wall. She felt like the prey in this competitive situation. Percy held up a protective arm to shield her, but the man wasn't looking at either her or Percy in particular. His eyes were crazy-looking, and he was stumbling about, teetering like a drunk, but he was very much sober.

Drunk people did not look this horrified. They did not look like they had learned the ugly truth of the entire universe, like they had ripped a hole in the space time continuum.

They were blissfully unaware, and this man was anything but.

Annabeth's mouth parted in surprise. She irrationally feared losing her own teeth for a moment before forcing herself to snap out of it.

"Ashk _him_." The man pointed up, and Annabeth thought at first he was speaking of a god, but then she realized he was pointing to the endless, white staircase that lined the entire library. "He KNOWSH THE TRUTHM, POFESSHOR MAEMALUS!" He laughed so hard he coughed, his entire torso trembling, wracked with tormented laugher, and then he hacked up blood all over the tile.

He grinned his toothless, haunting, madman smile at the pair before climbing onto the railing with unsteady hands.

And when they realized what was happening, it was too late.

"No, wait—!" Percy cried, jerking forward to stop him just as the man fell head-first into the pit, nothing left behind but the memory of his haunted tortured eyes.

…

Annabeth remained like that, pressed against the wall, petrified, for at least another ten minutes. Her breathing was harsh and loud even to her own ears.

Percy sank to the ground, crumbling to his knees, his head in his hands.

When Annabeth finally swiftly dropped to his side moments after, her senses coming back to her, she realized, her heart numbing with the understanding, that Percy was crying. He was sobbing in the way she had the first couple days she had been here, in a way people didn't cry unless their days had been much longer than their age, in a way only adults did when they had lost everything and anything, and there was nothing left but shards of broken hope, crushed to smithereens then. Unfixable.

"Percy," she pleaded, feeling the tears pricking at her own face. Before she even knew it, she was weeping freely alongside him, fat tears streaming down her face. He seized Annabeth by her midsection, drawing her close to him, and they cried together.

It was ugly as they sobbed, holding onto each other for dear life (or death). His nose had gone pink and his cheeks too, and her eyes were red-rimmed as they always were when she cried grossly. Together they could've filled swimming pools with their grief.

Annabeth had once believed paradise was a place with many books when she was younger and naive and holed up in her libraries. She had never once realized it was a hell in disguise when trapped in a place she once used to love so furiously, so deeply.

They grieved not for that frightening stranger in particular, nor anyone else or anything else for that matter, but for themselves, for their long shadows, for the gaping hole in their chests where their hearts should've been, for the people they left behind, for the life they left stranded much too early at twenty-five and twenty-nine, for an end they no longer trusted in.

…

Leaning on each other for support, they scaled the stairs together. It was a short climb in comparison to the distance they had run, and Annabeth was thankful to know her destination would be fruitful at least this once.

At the top, they walked into the hall and were stunned by the sorrow. People were weeping. Some seemed almost catatonic, staring into nothing, their faces a frozen rictus empty of expression. Annabeth saw a man and asked where she could find Professor Daedalus. He waved Percy and her down the hall. "Third flat down," he said stiffly. Annabeth made her way through the group of sorrowing souls, gently leading Percy next to her.

Professor Daedalus was sitting on his bed, his head clutched in his hands.

"Professor?" Annabeth asked. He looked up. He didn't answer at first, so she asked again.

"What?" he said coldly.

She patiently explained she was new to this floor and this end of the library.

He shook his head. "What do you want?"

Percy squeezed Annabeth's hand, silently offering comfort and strength even then. Annabeth hesitated. "I was just wondering about the… sorrow."

He laughed at them and threw pages torn from a book at her. The margins were cluttered with charcoal equations, scratched out using a sharpened bone and something burnt from the kiosk.

"Look at these. It will answer your question. Look at them and weep because they are going to tell you exactly what it means to be in this Hell. Look! Look!"

Annabeth was frightened for a minute that he was going to get violent and backed away, but he just sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands.

She picked up the paper and stared blankly at the calculations. Percy could not make heads or tails of them, but as she carefully deciphered the writing, she began to understand, and it only made the cold numbness in her freeze harder.

The Library of Babel contains all the books of a certain size that can be written. Daedalus had assumed all the characters on a standard keyboard and that each book (as described by Jorge Luis Borges) is 410 pages long with 40 lines of 80 characters on each page. So the total number of characters in a book is 410 multiplied with 40 multiplied with 80, equalling 1,312,000. With about 95 possible characters on a standard keyboard, that implied the number of possible books was about 95 raised to the 1,312,000, a rather large number when one considered that there were only (according to Arthur Eddington [1882-1944]) 1.5 raised to the 80 electrons in the universe. Assuming the books were about 1.5 inches thick and take about 1.5 feet to shelve vertically, figuring about 8 shelves 200 feet long and about 100 square feet of living space, the width and breath of the library (given two shelves, one for each side of the library) is about 7.16 raised to the 1,297,369 _light-years_ wide and deep.

"How long did you work on this?" Annabeth asked after the Professor's breathing had returned to normal. He lifted his head and looked at her.

"What?"

"You've been doing this a long time?"

"I had an estimate in just a few minutes, but the exact answer has taken me awhile—I did not want to believe my guess."

"What are they, if you don't mind me asking?" Percy interrupted, lost.

Annabeth felt the dread ballooning. She would've fallen over if not for Percy's arm around her and her arm around him.

Daedalus let out a sigh. "I calculated the number of books in the library." He stopped and looked at the papers he had thrown at Annabeth. "And based on your friend's expression, not only is she exceedingly bright—bright enough to make understanding of my chicken scratch—but she understands why we are all so very, very screwed."

Annabeth felt faint, sure enough, and Percy's face screwed up in concern. He reached to feel for a fever, and her face had gone ashen grey with ghostly white lips.

"How many are there?" Percy asked. "Is there a finite number?" This was one of the most discussed questions in Hell. Though there were many intelligent people lingering about in Hell, no one was versed in probability theory. If Daedalus had actually calculated the number of books, he had proved the generally believed theory that there was a finite amount of books, but very large. Percy's voice was excited, and Annabeth nearly deflated at the sound, the world spinning around her. She clutched her head in exhaustion and sickness. "How many?" Percy asked with a little more tension in his voice as if he'd realized the implications of what he was asking.

"Ninety-five raised to the one million three hundred twelve thousandth power."

Annabeth nearly began sobbing at Daedalus' statement, and Percy held her tighter.

"That's a lot. Right?" Percy inquired.

Ignorance truly was bliss.

"You don't understand," Daedalus explained. "In our old universe there were only ten raised to the seventy-eighth electrons."

"You mean to tell me there are more books in this library than there were electrons in our whole previous universe?"

"Way more." Then he added with an evil, mischievous look, "in fact, I've calculated the dimensions of the library. You say you're from thirty thousands miles west? Did you wonder when you would hit the side?"

Percy nodded slowly. Annabeth really began to cry then, and nothing could stop her then.

Daedalus laughed bitterly. "Well if you were somewhere near the middle of Hell, you only have ten to the one million two hundred ninety-seven thousand three hundred seventy-seventh light years to go."

Annabeth would never forget his cold laugh.

"You have over a million more orders of magnitude light-years to run than there were in our old universe."

Percy stumbled backwards, and Annabeth crumpled to the ground, her hands covering her mouth in agony. She was quietly sobbing, the type of crying where you're too tired to even make a noise.

"And you see that pit out there? Do you know the myth, my dear?" He gently turned to Annabeth, perhaps taking pity on her. "The Greeks? Tartarus?"

Annabeth choked out a few incoherent words before collecting herself. "It was said it would take nine days to fall to Tartarus," she spat out, and Daedalus offered her a handkerchief which she gratefully accepted.

"That void works the same vertically as you have been running horizontally. It's like a cube, unlike the Library of Babel."

Annabeth cried so hard she thought she was going to throw up, gasping desperately for air, for relief, but the air she inhaled only reminded her she was painfully dead for over five months now, thrown to suffer in a place bigger than life itself. She had anticipated his words, but it didn't make it hurt any less. They would never reach the first floor, and they would never reach the side of the damned library. They were stuck for all of eternity, and all sense of reasoning had left her entirely.

"We'll never get to the bottom," Percy whispered, eyes the size of saucers. His voice was thick with emotion.

Daedalus shook his head in disgust. "Oh, you'll reach the bottom," he laughed savagely, "just not for a very, very long time."

…

"Annabeth, stop!"

She could hear him yelling behind her, but her feet moved under her, carrying her to the edge of the railing. She dangerously leaned over it, her blood pumping in her ears.

"There's no point!" Percy caught up to her, holding onto her as if he was afraid she would jump. "You heard him! You'll just be falling for eternity; you'll grow thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted. It's not any better!"

She looked up at him through bleary vision. "It _has_ to be."

"It's not."

"There must be some _end_ , Perseus! This can't be the end! They _promised_ , they promised we wouldn't be here forever!"

"Do you see that?" he demanded, and he forced her to look at the rules by the clock, but she was only shaking her head, sobbing, refusing. "Look at it, Annabeth, I swear to god or no god or all of them! Look at it!"

She looked.

"Read number two for me." He was calmer now.

"No," she wept. "I can't believe it. I can't."

"Annabeth," he pleaded. "Please."

" _Do not get discouraged. Remember nothing lasts forever. Someday this will be a distant memory,_ " she managed through hiccups.

"Let it go, Annabeth. We _will_ find the books, and we will escape. Someday. It's a promise just as much as anything any demon ever told you." He pressed his palm against hers, and his hand was just a little bit bigger than hers. It was at that moment Annabeth realized she was in love with him. She had known him only five months now, but she knew it to be as true as the fact that she was desperate for a form of escape that would never come.

"Get water from the kiosk," she demanded, finding her strength. She laced her fingers with his, sighing with a shudder, shivering slightly.

"I'm not leaving you." His voice was strained. "Not at this edge."

They walked to the kiosk together, grabbing some water.

"You can't be serious," Percy murmured as it dawned on him. He looked at her fearfully, but she had no more tears to cry. At least, not for now. (She will later).

"As serious as those numbers are." She brushed away some lingering tears from her face with the palm of her hand. "But I'm not stupid. Water is a necessity, and we will fall till nine and then find a nearby chamber. Sound good?"

Percy's eyes hardened with determination. He took her left hand in his right, water held tightly in their free arms, and they helped each other onto the railing. They sat, their legs dangling over the chasm below them, eagerly waiting to swallow them whole.

She locked eyes with him, and, holding his hand impossibly tighter, simultaneously nodding slightly, they jumped.

…

It was getting late now. People watched them whizz past, offering water—they had long run out; it was taxing to plummet to the bottom of Hell—but they couldn't do anything except fall past, helpless. It was around eight at night that Annabeth began to wonder how they were going to leave this loop. They would have to eventually. They would die of fatigue or something, and even if they were revived every morning as promised by the rules, it was not how she wanted to spend light years at once. They would take their time, descending for billions of years carefully and recklessly too. Percy could make it tolerable, and they would be okay.

"We need to get out," Annabeth hissed at him.

"How?" he screamed over the whistling air.

Annabeth frowned. "I'm going to try something; don't freak out if I die."

Percy's eyes widened with fear. "No, Annabeth!"

"I'll be back in the morning even if it goes awry!" she shouted, her voice echoing as they went further and further down.

She realized she was just going to have to superman onto a floor which would require some pretty good horizontal speed because she would have to move horizontally into the eight-foot space between the railing and the ceiling of the floor above. So she had to move about two feet across during an eight-foot drop. She was moving way too fast for that, and even with her smock bowed into a wing framed by her arms she wasn't getting that much horizontal direction. But she had to try, Annabeth knew, otherwise she would never learn how.

Annabeth stretched and angled herself to try a glide. She was not doing too badly; she was flying right next to the railing, but was still falling too fast to get into that eight-foot span. She kicked out her leg nearest the railing and managed to get it inside. It hit the railing with such force that it felt like her leg had been ripped off, and sent her spinning. Her leg was broken, and her femur had been torn from her hip. The tumbling did not help the pain. She was vaguely aware of Percy screaming next to her. She had never been in that much pain in her life either on earth or in Hell. She went into shock and mercifully passed out. When Annabeth woke up later that night, the pain was unbearable. She had to do something, so she maneuvered over to the railing, muttering a quiet apology to Percy he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Annabeth—"

She stuck her head out, hitting the railing as it flew past.

…

The next morning Annabeth felt fine. All was healed, but she was still falling. Percy was there too, alive… and uninjured. She could only assume he too had died midway from thirst and had come back.

He didn't look at her. She assumed it was because she had basically killed herself, and swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat. If they ever escaped this, she would explain. She would apologize. She would… make it better. Hopefully. (Hopefully. What a cruel word for such a dire situation. Annabeth hasn't thought that word since her first hundred years now).

She decided she would try again if Percy wasn't going to say anything. She maneuvered herself next to the railing and tried to get as much of a horizontal vector as she could. This time she had a better plan, though, however theoretical. She didn't want to lose Percy to the fall, or they'd be god knows how many floors apart. Annabeth kicked her leg out as before, and it hit and broke again, but as she spun around, she tried to throw her arms around the railing on the next floor down. Though it felt like they too were torn from the sockets, she swung her legs around, trying to kick Percy into the gap, and into the space between that floor and the one below. She got them both in and was going slowly enough that she actually hung from the railing by her knees like a child on a monkey bar for a moment or two. But she was not inside the floor, and with two broken arms and a broken leg, she dropped again into her fall. She did not have to wait long, though, before she banged her head on the railing to forget the pain.

…

"Do you have suicidal tendencies?" Percy yelled at her as soon as she woke up the next day. He was crying, his tears flying back in the wind as they fell.

"Don't yell at me!" she demanded, but she felt hot tears rolling… well, _up_ her cheeks as well.

"You died _twice!_ "

"So did you!" From water deprivation, not lunatic attempts, sure, but they still counted.

"I didn't intend to, though! Have you lost it entirely?"

"Would you rather fall forever?" She was very aware she sounded and probably looked crazy. Percy was silent, angry, but unable to argue that valid point. "That's what I thought. Just don't look!"

"Don't look while you _die?!_ You're fucking _insane!_ " he hissed, and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming anything else.

She tried the same thing again and almost got inside that day. If her back had not broken, she might've managed to land.

…

The following day, by improving her horizontal direction and slowing herself down by using her arm and leg on the wall, she finally did it. She landed on the floor. Annabeth had broken both legs, both arms, and mercifully her neck. Percy was crumpled next to her, dead. But lying there, with feeling only in her head, she could see she was on a floor. She had stopped falling. She would have danced if she had been able to feel her legs.

Annabeth passed out but woke up late in the afternoon and found a man staring at them both. She could tell she was lying in a pool of blood and must have looked a sight with her arms and legs lying twisted and broken in a heap. She could not speak, but she moved her jaw.

He looked at her, clearly wondering what had happened. Then he asked kindly, partially stuttering in an odd, bleating manner, "were you beat up?"

Annabeth could answer nothing. He saw her struggles and squatted besides her and Percy's corpse.

"Blink twice for no and once for yes."

She blinked twice.

He scratched his curly hair and said to himself, "how did you get into this mess? Did you do it to yourself?" he asked.

Annabeth hesitated, not sure how to answer, but blinked twice and then blinked once.

"Sort of?" he asked.

She blinked once.

She was starting to lose consciousness again, and he noticed she was starting to drift.

"Would you like me to kill you?" he asked hurriedly before she slipped away.

Annabeth managed a weak smile and blinked once.

…

She woke up in a bed! Annabeth just stared at the ceiling and enjoyed the feeling of cozy security it gave her not to be falling. She was not alone in the room—Percy was curled into a bed across from hers, and he seemed smaller than she had ever thought possible. At first, she froze, thinking him dead, but then she noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest, and she relaxed. She had seen him dead enough that the face haunted her, as she imagined it would forever, and for him too. There was a lot talking to do, but she let him sleep.

Annabeth wondered where the man she had met yesterday had gone. She jumped out of bed and made for a kiosk. She had eggs, ham, pancakes, and a carafe of orange juice. It was marvelous, and she brought some back to the room for Percy who had risen out of a deep sleep. He ate breakfast in bed in silence, and she didn't probe him, not yet. She did not spit out unspoken apologies, not wishing to plague him so early in the morning. While they ate, she did not think of anything but the food and the sweet feel of liquid running down her throat. It had been so long since she'd had a chance to just sit and think. Falling had killed her so frequently since her capture she'd forgotten what it was like to sit down to a meal and simply enjoy the pleasures of eating. After breakfast, she looked around. She could not see a soul. The place was still and silent. She wondered how far she had traveled down. Miles and miles it must have been, but there was no way to know. She looked over the edge and was saddened to think she was going to have to continue her fall soon. She had to strike out for the bottom again to find the beginning where she could begin the meticulous search for the book of her life. Still, she was not cheered at the prospect of falling again. It had been so hard and traumatic to escape from the freefall that the thought of returning was unnerving.

Annabeth idled around the rest of the day, opening a few books and tossing them over the side with Percy. They were all gibberish of course, but she kept going through the motions of hunting. After a nap and a late lunch, she was startled to see a man approaching. When he got closer, she could see it was the frail man who had put her out of her misery yesterday.

"Hello," Annabeth called as he neared. "Thank you for helping me yesterday."

He shrugged. "I expect you'd do the same for me."

"Of course," Annabeth said and invited him to sit down by the kiosk. He was carrying a pillowcase with a book in it. He sat it carefully beside him and sat down with a sigh. He looked at the pair of them with a sidelong glance, introducing himself as Grover. "You're a long way from anyone else. Are you searching for the first floor too?"

Annabeth nodded vaguely. "Sort of, but we're taking a break." Percy was quiet, picking at his eggs.

She learned he had been traveling downstairs for years. It had been over three weeks since he had met anyone.

"In fact," Grover said, trembling, "I continued on after I had moved you to the bed, but started back this morning after thinking about your condition. What happened to you? I was afraid there might be some of those strange, violent gangs about."

When Annabeth explained about their fall and attempt to get on the shelf stacks, he was doubly amazed.

"I've often thought about making the jump to find the bottom. But I suppose I was never sure enough there was a bottom—you know, there always were those who said there was none."

Annabeth had never heard of the Direites, which Grover was glad to learn. Their influence had been so profound a few miles above he was afraid it had spread everywhere. He patiently explained the gangs, and now even Percy was listening. Apparently there was a man by the name of Octavian claiming he received a vision from the god almighty, and he had banded together a cult by the name of Direites who believed exacting punishment on all who didn't join them and torture others was god's will.

Annabeth was nothing short of horrified—history had begun to repeat itself, even in the afterlife. It reminded her too much of America's dark past, and her mouth fell open as Grover explained their views. Percy only shook his head in wonder and sadness.

"So you're from way up there. You fell for what, seven, maybe ten days. At over a hundred twenty miles an hour. You've really covered some distance. I'm envious. That's over thirty thousand miles. Wow, and the top floor is higher than that. Who would have guessed?" He twitched with excitement.

Annabeth smiled. "I thought we would have hit the bottom before this, too."

As was custom in Hell, they exchanged accounts of their lives on earth, their adventures in Hell, and such stories as passed the time with others in this endless afterlife. At dinner he introduced Annabeth and Percy to a delicious vegan dish—Grover had been environmentally friendly in his life, an advocate actually—with ginger sauce and sweet potatoes. This was a dish she would have to remind herself of on occasion.

"What book have you found?" Annabeth asked.

Grover smiled and pulled it out. "I found it on the seven thousand three hundred twenty-second floor down from prime," he said, which meant nothing to either Annabeth or Percy as Grover's prime was clearly not theirs. Grover opened the book to a page he had marked with a napkin and handed it to her. Annabeth was stunned. It read,

_Breath comes to me in bursts of joy. Stone retched out bloody worms, worn red with the passing of licking patterns of salt. Why signal wu8_

Annabeth had never read anything of such profound clarity in the library before. Tears rolled down her face, and she looked up at him with gratitude. Percy clutched it tightly, his breathing harsher with relief and emotion.

"Wonderful isn't it?" said Grover.

"It's two sentences that are grammatically correct! They make sense. This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. It's poetry." Annabeth was wild with joy. She hugged the book and kissed its cover and passed it reverently, if somewhat reluctantly, back to him.

"Thank you," said Percy. "You've given me some hope I haven't had in a long time."

Grover nodded and without another word walked to the nearest stairwell and started down.

…

The next morning, she and Percy followed in suit, going down. With so much to walk, she had lots of room to think, especially since Percy wasn't particularly talkative at the moment.

Annabeth thought of the mountains and forests she remembered from her life as she descended. She thought of the intricate structure of an ant's cuticle. How delicate the song of a bird, nestled in the twisted branches of a towering pine, sounds spilling into the cool morning. She thought of the zippered feathers of a sparrow and of its patterned colors, the banded mottling of its breast, its tiny feet curled round the rough brown bark, cracked and furrowed, giving purchase to those tiny clawed feet. What Annabeth would have given even see what once was her deepest fear—a spider—in this place. It would be heralded as a treasure that could not be purchased with a king's ransom.

But here, deep in Hell, there was nothing to match such a wonder. Such splashes of variegation were denied them. Their attempts at music were nothing but a shadow of what they enjoyed on earth, but even more than music, they missed the natural sounds. The whoosh of the wind through the yellowing leaves of an oak on a cool day late in fall. The splashing of water over smooth stone in a tiny creek as it made its way down a steep mountain. Even the whistle of a train, or the screaming of a truck down the highway would have seemed like a symphony.

The clomping of Percy's feet and hers scaling down the steps reminded Annabeth of the poverty of sensation they endured here. But on she descended, dreaming of meeting a man or a woman who did not even speak English at all (Annabeth now knows the Xandern did indeed send people to different hells, and the non-native English speakers probably conglomerated somewhere else), who knew some songs she could not repeat ad nauseum. The ring of her feet striking the steps was becoming the summation of sameness from which there was no escape.

Nevertheless, Percy and Annabeth descended on. And on. And on.

And then he began to talk. Well, kind of.

"You died," was all Percy said. They went down two more flights before he said something again. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Annabeth let out a puff of air before finally turning to look at him as they descended. Her legs were wobbly, shaky. She was beginning to lose sense of where she was going and how to walk down stairs, so they paused, leaning against the library walls on some random floor and caught their breath.

"Don't be. I had it coming."

"Yeah, but you were just trying to get out of the fall—it wasn't your fault. You tried really hard. It was just… hard. It's hard to see you die. And I thought it would get easier with each attempt, b-but it really didn't." He exhaled shakily, and Annabeth closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to see the torture on his face. "And I'm sorry too because… because after you went out the third time, I did too."

"On purpose?" She could now understand better what it was like to hear the words coming from her mouth in his ears. It felt like agony that he would try to end it all, even if he would come back always. Because it wasn't the same the next time, and the next time, and at what point were you just insensitive to death? At what point did you become an unfeeling, uncaring monster? (Annabeth realizes it's sometime after your first couple millennia that the numbness takes over completely. It begins slowly, like sleep, and then it's all at once.)

"Yes."

Annabeth couldn't help herself. Pulling him flush to her, she covered his mouth with her own. He replied with equal fervor, his arms wrapping around her waist comfortably. In Hell they had little more than hope, and he was her lifeline for lack of a better term.

They kissed until his lips were swollen, and her cheeks seemed they would be permanently stained a dark pink, and then they kissed some more.

To kiss, to fall into an embrace, was to be human, it was to feel something in a world nothing changed. She did not make professions or love, and neither did he. Love was something they felt but did not put into words. Love could not even begin to cover what it meant to have someone steady through the madness, and Annabeth thought of those they'd left behind, those who were probably seeking their something in this hellish infinity, but he was her finite, was her glue, keeping her sanity in check, and she treasured him more than anything she'd treasured when she was alive.

She began walking again and he followed, just as unsteadily.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he only took her hand, his warmth comforting her. She never would have imagined Hell would be warm in its people, not in the place. (You'll be surprised how much Hell is people, not land, actually. Hell is people. Hell is people. Hell _is_ people—it is Annabeth's truth. Because Hell doesn't make monsters; monsters make Hell. She knows a human face reveals its truth once its teeth are exposed—it is nothing more than a mask of flesh and hatred covering a skull, and Hell is people).

…

It took them seven weeks, but at least they ran into someone. She entered the floor exhausted, wobbled to the kiosk, and asked for a glass of lemonade. Percy sipped on blue Gatorade. Both drinks were ice cold, and they downed them with relish. Annabeth noticed a man sitting in the middle of the stacks just looking down into the endless emptiness of the gulf. But his pupils were dilated, and he was holding up a book like a makeshift weapon.

Annabeth's skin prickled with familiar fear.

The man looked up at them, his lips trembling ever so slightly. He put an index finger to his lips, indicating for them to be quiet, and as if on cue a wail of torture came from somewhere far to the right. Percy and Annabeth quickly fell to their knees to hide behind the books with the stranger.

Annabeth wasn't sure how she knew, but she did. This was the work of Dire Octavian, "the prophet of doom and truth." He claimed to be from the other side of the divide and to have been visited by the gods themselves. Gods appeared in his room and bade him rise and hear the truth.

She told the man who knelt what Grover had told her, what Octavian claimed the gods had told him: _Those in Hell must be taught who it is they have offended in their sin. They must be made to feel out wrath. The time has come that they are to be scourged. You will be like a whip in my hand. You will be the sword in my clenched fist. You will bring them punishment. The days of this peace in Hell are ended. Kill them again and again. Torture them, cause them pain and fire. Leave not a moment of peace. Teach them the wrath born of their sins and rebellions. Strike them when they are awake. Smite them when they are asleep. Cut without mercy. Slice without pity. The day is now. Teach them the horrors of just gods!_

In turn, the man told them what he knew. The Direites spread like parasites. Their numbers increased under the promise of a bright heaven to come. Their numbers swelled to the thousands in a year. They made recruits across the gulf, on both sides of the library. Never before had Percy or Annabeth seen such terror. The Direites hunted in packs of ten to thirty men and occasionally a few women. They were bound by oaths to cause as much hurt as they could. If you did not join, they would keep your prisoner for days, engaging in torture. The man refused to describe it. It was beyond his ability, he said. He said they had, on these floors, become like animals. They ran. Hiding. Running. Watching both sides of the library, for the two sides worked together to hunt everyone down. Annabeth and Percy just wanted to travel to where there were no people, but the Direites kept the borders of the four directions carefully guarded, and both Annabeth and Percy were much too afraid to jump into the pit again, though they informed the man of this so he may escape this Hell within a Hell.

…

They had been in year 102, captured and escaped from the Direites multiple times, when two faces appeared on the other side of the stairwell where Annabeth and Percy had been peacefully enjoying a meal and joking. Their faces were stretched in unmistakable terror. They looked at the pair eating and screamed, "run!"

Percy and Annabeth needed no more explanation. They had been in Hell long enough, trapped in these floors long enough, to know what it meant. Together they bolted off to the left. They could see across the divide that the Direites on the other side were directing the pack on their side to their location. Annabeth pulled Percy, and they ran faster, their legs pumping like sprinters'. Suddenly, in front of them a gang poured out of a stairwell. They grounded to a halt and turned the other way, sprinted into another stairwell, and headed down. They flew down the stairs with the animals panting hot behind them like wolves. They raced down to another level and went right. They should have gone left. If Annabeth had one wish to make in this eternity of madness, if she could have one prayer answered in this empty place, it would be that they had turned left instead of right. _Why?_ Why? Has been her question ever since.

They were surrounded. Another gang poured out of the stairwell in front of them, and they were surrounded. The Direites' eyes were terrible, their countenances radiating nothing but fierceness and hatred.

Annabeth imagined this must have been what it was like to live in mass genocide times, except they feared not death, they feared repetitive torture and repetitive death. She found her mind wandering to rule number 9, that they were here to learn a lesson, all of them, that trying to crack the case would only drive individuals insane. And she wondered if this was part of a lesson. She had never seen fear in Percy's face quite like this before, and she had never been so afraid in her entire life, and her heart went out for every victim of every injustice America or another country refused to own up to. They sat around and built monuments for the crimes of others, and they buried their own wrongdoings, and they played the part of a prophet, of Octavian, and pretended everything would be alright. (Hell, Annabeth has long realized, is something you carry with you, not a place to where you go. It's a place that hides in human hearts, and it eats you from the inside out. It is the cruelty of human beings like no other. And it is our shame, our fear of change, of no change, of something unknown that blinds us).

The Direites moved toward them, armed with clubs and spears made of cow and water buffalo bones. "To murder a sinner in the morning is the start of a good day," one of Octavian's minions spat, grinning. Annabeth was speechless. She peeked at the pit. "Don't even think about jumping. We'll catch you before you get a foot on the railing. Then we'll torture you in ways you would find rather unpleasant. The great thing is, every day, we get to start fresh. We have people we've tortured for over a year. Great sinners, of course. They deserve it. It's the gods' great work."

Annabeth stared at them like they were madmen. Someone screamed off the right, the far, far left, and Annabeth knew it was one of their victims.

"You'll get used to it," said another man. "Their screams, I mean. It's all gods' work."

Percy turned to Annabeth, and she was shocked to see he was surprisingly calm.

The Direites lunged for them, their trapped prey.

"I love you," Percy said, a beautiful smile on his face, and he pushed her into the pit.

…

"You son of a bitch!" Annabeth heard as she fell one more time, and then someone was tumbling after her. Another Direite. She saw humans and no humanity.

Annabeth had him around the waist and did not let go as they tumbled into the great divide between the two walls of books. He was kicking frantically and screaming that he would kill her. And he did. She had him around the waist, and he leaned back and grabbed her head and gave it a quick hard twist, breaking her neck.

…

In the morning they were still falling. Annabeth was a little disappointed because she knew they were travelling down at about a hundred miles an hour, and she hoped that after a day and night they might have hit the 

Her enemy was still with her. He was about two hundred feet above Annabeth and was in a parachutist's dive, spread-eagled and looking right at her. Annabeth was still winging her hands like a chicken tossed from a barn and doing occasional flips, but he seemed in control. Annabeth supposed he had had all day to practice while she was falling as dead and helpless as a crash-test dummy. His look was one of pure and absolute hatred. He maneuvered a little closer and started screaming at her what appeared to be a well-rehearsed speech.

"You maggot! Do you know against whom you fight? Dog! You fight against gods! Against gods. You… say something!" he demanded when she was silent.

"It takes me awhile to process so much stupid at once!" Annabeth screamed, and it felt good to scream.

"You—" He could not finish; he let out a scream of rage, folded his arms to his side, and dove straight at her, head first. Annabeth tried to flap out of the way, but whereas he seemed to be a guided missile, she was completely out of control. Their heads collided like two hollow melons.

…

When Annabeth awoke, it took her a long time to find him. She tried to look around, but she was still not in control, so she used his trick and spread out her arms, and found she was stabilizing. With her perfect recollection of the past, she thought of pictures she had seen of skydivers and tried to mimic the impression she had of their falls. After an hour or so she was doing quite well and could ever control her direction.

The Direite, she finally noticed, was about three hundred yards below her. Her enemy was trying hard to spread himself out and slow his fall. He was heavy in build—more muscular than her—and apparently with less friction he had fallen a little faster. He would occasionally look at Annabeth and scream things she could not hear, but she too had learned to slow down. Through the day she began feeling hungry and thirsty. They flew down, and she watched as he nemesis slowly drifted further and further away. Annabeth kept angling her arms so she was flying away from him, and they seemed to be drifting in different directions.

Just before the lights went out, she caught her last glimpse of the Direite. He was just a pinprick far, far below her, and they were separated by a great distance. As complete darkness gathered around her, she had a strange feeling of safety. She stayed awake for hours, thinking of Percy, crying a little. She was almost positive she would never see him again—she had fallen so far. But she had to hope, like Percy had always encouraged her to. Perhaps… perhaps she could climb back up and see him again. He was the light in this Hell, and she _needed_ him. Just before dawn, that inevitable moment through which no one in Hell has ever been able to stay awake, that strange hour when books are returned, the dead revived, and all wounds healed—she fell asleep and did not wake until the turning on of the lights.

The Direite was gone. Annabeth was never to see him again. Nor has anyone she has met since. He, like her, is lost in the library. Alone. She wonders, does he still feel he is the fist of God(s)?

Annabeth finally succumbed to her thirst and hunger. Sometimes she hallucinated Percy was falling with her, offering her water, but he would always drift out of reach. She kicked her leg out again as she had so many years ago, and she managed to escape on some random floor with sheer luck and only a shattered skull. She died again, though.

…

Annabeth wandered for many years after that. She was paralyzed. She knew finally that Percy and her would never meet again, but she hoped for hundreds of years she would happen upon him one day. She played it out over and over in her mind. She would one day walk up to a kiosk, and there he would be, ordering the blue cookies he was so fond of. He would see her and jump up and throw his arms around her. She would never let go. Sometimes, in her mind, Annabeth found him sitting on the floor of the library, pulling books off the shelves and looking at them. Other times she pictured him falling past her, shouting out her name. Annabeth would leap over the railing and, plunging like superman, catch him at last. They would embrace and never let go. They would never let go until they hit the bottom a zillion, zillion years later. But these were not to be. Annabeth has never found him. She knows he dwells somewhere in this vast library; like the book of her life, he exists somewhere. Right now he is somewhere, probably alone like her, and somewhere he is undoubtedly pulling book after book off a shelf, scanning it, and tossing it aside. He probably, like her, keeps a book or two at his side. Perhaps one contains a novel he's found, or a long and intricate poem. Maybe he has found his story and has left this Hell—no, like Annabeth through the eons, he has covered only a drop in the ocean of books that await their perusal.

It seems odd to Annabeth now that after so long she still focuses on a time so brief as to be but a fraction of an instant in the time she will be here, but so powerfully has that instant rooted into her that she holds onto it with a hopeless desperation. Ages of universes pass while she looks at books of nonsense, yet she thinks on and on of a love so far in the past it is incomprehensible to believe it was even real. What is love that it has such power? Whatever it is, it seems unlikely this god, or these gods, or no god could it inflict what it has upon her? Who can understand? Once Annabeth feared to say such things, dreading a worse punishment. But what worse fate could there be? To remember love and know it is unattainable? To know love wanders somewhere light-years and light-years distant, ever knowing it is forever out of reach? Forever hidden? So she picks up another book. Opens it. Sees a page of random characters. Tosses it over the edge. Pick up another. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat… on and on the dots signify. On and on she goes, light-year after light-year, eon after eon…

Annabeth wandered for hundreds of years. Climbing, descending, climbing. She made some friends, fought a few people, protected others. She is glad to say she never ran into another group like the evil one that took Percy from her. Yet she was never the same. So one morning she jumped. There was nothing more to do but find the bottom and start the search for her story in earnest. She would have to fall an eternity of light years, so she ordered a lamb shank from the kiosk, fashioned a bone knife and tied it on her arm with a strip of cloth torn from her robe, and jumped.

For eons she fell. Every morning she woke, plunged the knife into her neck, and awoke the next morning only to do the same again. Over and over, every day. Sometimes she would stay awake for an hour or so, but then boredom would set in, and she would use the bone knife again.

Then came centuries of agonizing thought. She knew she had not even fallen a light-year yet. She had googols and googols of light-years to go. There is a despair that goes deeper than existence; it runs to the marrow of consciousness, to the seat of the soul. Could she keep living like this forever? How could she continue existing in this Hell? And yet there was no choice.

Existence goes on and on here. Finite does not mean much if you can't tell any practical difference between it and infinite. Every morning the despair gripped her, a cold despair that reached inside, creating a catatonic numbness. There was a vague feeling of falling, of getting hungry and having a thirst beyond reason, but it seemed distant. Far away. And for the first time since her arrival Annabeth lost awareness of the passing of days. Of how long she fell she still has no memory. The unforgettableness of Hell was suspended and in this numbing madness she plummeted downward. How many eons passed she cannot guess. Finally, slowly, she gained a measure of lucidity and decided to end her fall. It took her thirty-two attempts, but finally she woke up in the familiar halls of the library. Instinctively, still hoping for some luck, she pulled one of the books off the shelf—a splash of nonsense of course.

For the next hundred and forty-four years she wandered the stacks. She knew at some point she would begin the fall again, but for a long time she just wanted to find something. She did find this:

_Catch tress as windy dots_

The days passed in a dream. Annabeth pictured her reunion with Percy again and again. Anticipation is a gift. Perhaps there is none greater. Anticipation is born of hope. Indeed it is hope's finest expression. In hope's loss, however, is great despair.

Annabeth never found him. Now she wonders if their meeting was real. Perhaps it was a dream? Maybe her memory of him was an illusion. Nonetheless, he is gone, and so is she. That at least is clear. All hope is gone also. All hope for anything has vanished—meeting a person, finding a book, discovering some hidden way out. So much time has passed, what is left to say? All variety is lost, and billions of years spent searching through books has left her a poor conversationalist. Annabeth could tell you of her fall to the bottom—the starving and dying over and over in endless cycles of pain and forgetfulness. She could tell you of starting her search in earnest from the bottom floor. Of moving slowly up light years and light years of stairs. Of opening books beyond count. She could tell you of occasionally, every eon, meeting a person with whom she might stay for a billion years—Thalia, Reyna, Nico… But what of it? After a billion years there is nothing left to say, and you wander apart, uncaring in the end. The hope of a human relationship no longer carries any depth or weight for her, and all meaning has faded long ago into an endless grey nothingness.

Now the search is all that matters. She knows some humans are really bad at being human, and she knows mercy is finite, and yet she clings to it all, and she knows nobody else can help her now.

The search begins with her and it ends with her.

Annabeth knows there will come a time when she finds her book, but it is far in the future. And she knows without doubt that it will not be today. Yet a strange hope remains. A hope that somehow, something, God, Gods, no god, the demon Xandern, Ahura Mazda, Xandern's favorite Zoroastrian God, will see she's trying. She's really trying, and that will be enough.


End file.
